How You Doin’ Blondie?

Heart of Darkness
May 30, 2008, 2:38 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Body Image, Life, Random, sex | Tags: , , , ,

I was walking by a construction site today, and as I passed I heard “CLANK,” followed immediately by “Damn!” and “Yeah baby!” and “Mike, check this one out!” and a whole slew of wolf calls.

And you know what? I was embarrassed. I wanted to start running at break-neck speed to get the hell out of there. I envisioned that all the people around me were thinking, “Ew, why are they whistling at her?” I was almost 100% convinced that the construction workers must’ve been making fun of me, like “Carrie” for the working class.

Once I got past the construction site, I had to cut through Rittenhouse Square. As I walked through the concrete courtyard, through the middle of the park, I had to pass through park bench after park bench of businessmen taking their lunch break. As I’d approach a bench I’d listen to the low murmurs of conversation and then as I’d pass by, I’d listen to the conversation stop. Men just literally stopped and stared. And you know what I was thinking? “My face must be all shiny and red from walking, I must look like a mess, sweat must be making my shirt stick to my body, my stomach fat must be jiggling, they must be making fun of me – ‘she think she’s so hot, what a cow’ “.

People assume I must get compliments all the time, I must be up to my EYEBALLS in compliments. They assume my ego must be so inflated, one more compliment and I’ll just burst, like a giant Barbie balloon -and they aren’t about to feed anything else to this conceited monster, so they just stare. Every time I go out with a guy, any type of flattery is always followed by, “But I’m sure you hear that all the time.” Well, then you “sure” would be wrong, sweetheart.

I have my good days, every woman does – those days when you just feel good in your skin, when you feel like the hottest bitch on the block. But usually, when I look in the mirror, I see the overweight, homely, insecure little girl I was in grade school. And when I walk down the street, or past a construction site, or through a park, I feel like everybody else sees that little girl, too.

It’s awkward when pretty people have depth. 

“36-24-36? Only if she 5’3…”

I took Cody for a walk today, and I actually spent the bulk of it running. He goes crazy over puddles, he loves to splish-splash around in them to his little Husky heart’s content. The problem is, his leash is like 6 feet long, and the puddles are like 20 feet wide…so not only do I get wet, but I have to run like crazy to keep up. And I do not like running. It could be a Southern thing…it’s always too damn hot down there to even move, let alone run (a true Southerner won’t even run in the face of imminent danger, that’s what the right to bear arms is for)…or it could be a laziness thing.

Regardless, I don’t like running. In fact, I don’t like working out just for the sake of working out at all. I’ve tried to, I’ve joined two separate gyms in my lifetime with the intention of becoming one of those super-toned 21st century Playmates, but I never stuck with it. The biggest problem I had was with the gym clientele in general; it was always Tiffy and Rex in their super-tight spandex checking out each others rock hard bodies. I was always in some old t-shirt and shorts.

The other problem I had was actually a specific incident as opposed to just a general complaint. There’s a new gym that opened up a few blocks away from my house, not so close that I could walk to it, but close enough so that my fall-back “it’s just too far away” excuse wouldn’t work. So they have a membership drive, and I figure, ok, alright, let’s do this. So I go in there and say that I’d like to sign up and they assign me to a “fitness mentor” named Gary. Now Gary looked to be about 16 and in addition to having the body of Jose Conseco, he was also wearing a black t-shirt he apparently purchased in the children’s department. So Gary takes me over to his little “station” and he asks me a few general questions and he asks me what my overall fitness goal is and I say, “Oh, just to tone up.” Then Gary gives me a skeptical glance which he tries to cover up with a used car-salesman smile and says, “And maybe a weight-loss plan, too?” That was strike one. So then I step on the digital scale and Gary looks down at the numbers and says “That’s more then I expected.” Strike two. Then Gary whips out the measuring tape and proceeds to take my measurements. When he’s finished, he glances at his little clipboard and he says, “Well Suzanne, I think we can put together a great work-out regime for you. We’ll cut about 10 pounds and trim off some of those inches, how does that sound?” Well that was strike mother fucking three. My reaction was a little delayed, because my first instinct was to inwardly beat myself up about not being in perfect shape, but then there was little something that just went off.  The real me, the me that would’ve had Gary for breakfast after strike one, woke up and said, “Hey, why the fuck are you letting this little dick mother fucker talk to you like this? Get the fuck out of here! You don’t need this shit, Suzanne, you’re a bad bitch!” So I look Gary in the eye and I say, “You know what, I think I’ve changed my mind, I don’t think this program is for me.” Gary, who has clearly been caught off guard, starts back pedaling like a mad man and says, “You’re probably right, you’ve got a great shape, you don’t really need to exercise, but everybody likes to stay healthy, right?” I snorted, thanked him, and then walked away.

I’m done with gyms, fucking done. And you know why? Because I am five feet and ten inches tall, I weigh one hundred and fifty five pounds, my measurements are 36DD-27-38, I wear a size 8, AND I FUCKING LIKE IT. When I look in the mirror I LIKE WHAT I SEE, and I couldn’t give a FUCK LESS if it’s not good enough for Gary. I don’t care if my tits don’t look like the gym rats’ do, mine are REAL and JIGGLE and SAG A LITTLE BIT. I have cellulite on the back of my upper thighs. My triceps wobble. AND I LIKE IT. I FUCKING LIKE IT.


Ahem. Rant over.

I Was Reading “Men’s Health” In The Bathroom Today…
May 17, 2008, 2:25 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Hope, Life, love, Marraige, Men, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

…and I stumbled upon an article written by Hugh O’Neill entitled “The Hottest Sex Tip Ever: Don’t believe what you’ve heard. Your lifetime of great sex starts when you stroll down the aisle.” The article’s main focus was debunking common myths (and fears) that men have about marraige; “Myth 4: She Has To Have It All” is what made this post-worthy (though it could be argued, by citing numerous posts of mine, that I really don’t have very stringent guidelines for what makes it into a post and what doesn’t…but I digress…)

“Many a man balks at pulling the marraige trigger because he appraises a woman the way he’d size up an applaince and then decides she just doesn’t have all the features he’s looking for. Well, here are the answers to those questions tumbling around in your head. Yes, she’s pretty enough. Yes, she’s smart enough. Yes, she’s funny enough. Moreover, all those questions are irrelevant. It’s like asking if a car floats. Most often, your anxieties are less about her then about how others may view your choice of a partner. A woman doesn’t need great beauty or brains or wit to be a fabulous partner and a person very much worth loving throughout your life. Think of it this way: if she’s less then perfect, well, that’s just something else the two of you have in common. Everthing that’s beautiful is cracked, Leonard Cohen wrote, and that’s how the light gets in.”

Even though I think the overall gist of the paragraph was “it’s ok to settle” (which, once you reach a certain point and you’re that just-a-little-to-old-to-be-in-the-club guy, I guess it is), I really liked that Leonard Cohen quote; “Everything that’s beautiful is cracked, that’s how the light gets in.”

Weird, the places hope derive.

Well Said, Good Sir
May 14, 2008, 9:45 pm
Filed under: Beauty, Life, Quotes | Tags:

“Butterflies do not wax nostalgic about time they spent as caterpillars.”

Moore, Christopher. Practical Demonkeeping. New York City: Harper Collins, 1992.